


your eyes betray what burns inside you

by ceserabeau



Series: into the fire [1]
Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/F, F/M, Forced Prostitution, Implied/Referenced Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-04
Updated: 2014-12-04
Packaged: 2018-02-28 02:11:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2715113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceserabeau/pseuds/ceserabeau
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You meet the Girl on Fire at the Victor’s Party, hidden away in the depths of Snow’s garden. She’s reaching her hand out for one of the roses and you want to tell her: <i>don’t do it, they have thorns</i>, but she’s a Victor, she should know that by now. </p><p>Katniss and Johanna, a rebellion in the <strike>making</strike> breaking.</p>
            </blockquote>





	your eyes betray what burns inside you

**Author's Note:**

> Title from _I Love You_ by Woodkid. Johanna POV.

There’s only one Victor, as there was always meant to be: Katniss Everdeen, the Girl on Fire. She puts an arrow through the Career that put a sword through her boyfriend and just like that it’s over, the 74th Hunger Games coming to the same conclusion as every year before it.

“That was eventful,” Finnick says, throwing himself down onto the couch. Both of your tributes are long dead and the two of you have been wasting time ever since, drinking, waiting for it to be over. “You know, she had me going there for a minute. I thought she was going to try to save them both.”

You hum in agreement, but you knew the first time you saw her: Katniss Everdeen was a survivor, the same lines in her face, the same sharp look in her eyes as every Victor you’ve even seen.

She was always going to win.

-

You meet the Girl on Fire at the Victor’s Party, hidden away in the depths of Snow’s garden. She’s reaching her hand out for one of the roses and you want to tell her: _don’t do it_ , _they have thorns_ , but she’s a Victor, she should know that by now.

“Hey, 74,” you call, and she turns, startled, blood a dark stain on her fingertip. “Thinking about your boyfriend?”

Her face is a snarl in the making, right before she catches herself and it smoothes into something carefully calm. “Don’t talk about him,” she says coldly. “And don’t call me that.”

You can’t help the sharp grin that curls your mouth. “Are you sad he died?”

Her face shutters, hands clenching in the folds of her dress. “It was all an act,” she says, but her voice wavers over the words, her mouth turning down at the corners.

You raise an eyebrow. You know all about acting: that’s all you do, all anyone around you ever does. Katniss Everdeen has a lot to learn.

Before you can tell her though, a shrill voice says, “Katniss,” loud over the clamour of the party, and Katniss’ mouth twists into something that might have once been a smile.

When you look for the voice, you find a semi-familiar face beneath under all that blue hair. A stylist maybe, or an escort. Not that it matters: Capitol is Capitol is Capitol. When her eyes land on you they brighten.

“I see you’ve met Johanna Mason,” she trills, eyes flicking from Katniss to you: she’s wondering what secrets you’ve been sharing. “What did you think of the Games, Johanna? Wasn’t Katniss splendid?”

Oh, so splendid. The most daring tribute, the most potentially dangerous. Haymitch’s whispering in the dark: _this is the one we’ve been waiting for_.

“Of course,” you say. “The best I’ve seen in a long time.”

You reach out for Katniss' hand and raise her hand to your mouth, lick off the blood you find there: her breath hitches, and you taste copper and sadness and surprise.

-

Finnick fucks you in the dark, pressed up against the wall of his apartment, hands clenched tight around your wrists. It’s good, the right kind of too-much, too-hard. He leaves bruises in the shape of his fingers: black and purple, your favourite kind. 

“What’re you thinking about?” he whispers after, fingers brushing your hair off the curve of your shoulder. You raise an eyebrow; he raises one back. “Don’t pretend like your head was in the game. I know you, Jo.”

Of course he noticed: Finnick Odair didn’t win his Games by being oblivious. So he saw the way your eyes were unfocused, your mouth clamped shut on another’s name.

When he was kissing you, you were thinking of her: if her mouth would be rough and biting, all hatred and rage, or gentle, innocent, the awkward virginal girl you saw in the arena. When he was sliding into you, you were thinking of her: her fingers, their size, their shape; the way they would fit against your own, the way you want them inside you. When he was staring at you with his eyes of sea glass, you were thinking of her: the dark gaze, those slate-grey eyes, pulled straight from your dreams.

Finnick nudges you. “Are you listening to me?” he mumbles, tip of his nose rubbing under your ear. When you don’t answer, he sucks a wet mark onto your neck. “Want to go for round two?”

You’d like to: Finnick spread out on a bed, all golden skin against white sheets – but not tonight.

You turn to knock your foreheads together, breathing into each other’s mouths. “Go to bed, Finnick,” you say, whisper-soft, and he sighs, pulls away.

“Goodnight, Johanna,” he says quietly, and stumbles away in the direction of his bedroom.

It speaks volumes that he trusts you enough to show you his back.

-

Katniss Everdeen gets her letter. You know because Haymitch comes to knock on your door with a bottle of white liquor in each hand and a shaking girl in tow.

“They couldn’t even wait a few days,” he growls, propelling Katniss towards where Finnick is slumped on the couch watching reruns of some Capitol drama. “Apparently she’s too hot a commodity.”

“What do you want me to do?” you hiss back.

“A woman’s touch,” Haymitch says, like you have any idea what that is. “Talk to her. She needs it.”

You want to laugh. You never had that: instead it was Finnick pulling you out the shower, getting you into clothes, taking you to a bar so that you could drink until it felt like you could just shed your skin.

Behind you, Katniss drops onto the couch, already reaching for Finnick’s half-empty glass of whiskey on the table. She drains it in one swig and he shoots you a glance: _should I go?_

Haymitch nudges you hard in the back. “Get her out of here,” he says quietly, and pushes you forward.

Katniss doesn’t look up when you crouch before her. “Hey,” you say, reaching out to touch her wrist, telegraphing every move. She still flinches, but her eyes focus on you clearly. “Let’s get you cleaned up, okay?”

In the bathroom, under harsh halogen lights, Katniss is just a fragile little thing in a gaudy pink dress. Her makeup is smudged across her face; she strips and there are purple bruises in the shape of hands around the curve of her ribs, in a ring around her neck. When she looks at you, her eyes are dark and haunted: the same look you see in the mirror every day.

At the top of the list of things the Capitol doesn’t tell you: the lucky ones die in the arena.

-

“I need you,” Haymitch says in the afternoon.

You look at him across the kitchen: he’s leaning against the counter, drinking coffee from your favourite mug. His hair is finally greying around the temples, but there’s a spark in his eyes that you haven’t seen before.

“Is this a sexual thing?” you ask, turning away to make your own drink. “Because I get enough of that from those Capitol assholes.”

Haymitch’s eye roll is almost audible.  “I need you to help with Katniss,” he explains. “She’s the Girl on Fire, Jo. She’s the one.”

“So you said.” You glance over your shoulder at him, and he’s staring at you, eyebrows raised. “What do you want me to say, Haymitch? I think it’s a bad idea.”

“I’m not the only one who thinks so,” he tells you, setting the mug down carefully. “They love her in the districts. What she did for that little girl.”

You can’t help the way you scoff. “Doesn’t mean she can be your rebellion.”

Haymitch sighs, lets it go, but the look he gives you is knowing: it says _trust me_ ; it says _you want to see them burn too_.

-

Another Capitol party, Katniss Everdeen in another garish dress. She looks like a statue, built out of glittering stone: you’ve never seen anything so beautiful. She’s at the centre of a circle of Capitol sycophants, all of them brushing fingers along the hem of her skirt, touching the soft skin of her wrists.

It’s not hard to elbow your way in between them all, smiling your Capitol smile: bright, beautiful, vicious; and they scatter, terrified.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Katniss says when they’ve all vanished. “I could handle them.”

You bark a laugh: where did that scared little girl in your bathroom go? The one before you is razor-sharp edges, strength in her spine and anger in her eyes.

“Sure, darling,” you say, and pass her your drink, something syrupy and sparkling. She sips delicately like she’s been having lessons in proper etiquette: knowing the Capitol she probably has. “Having fun yet?” you ask, eyes following her tongue when she licks the sweetness off her lips.

She snorts. “I don’t know anyone here. My –” she stutters over the word “– date wandered off.” She turns to look at you head-on, fixing you with that hard stare. “Are you having fun, Miss Mason?”

“Not yet. But I will be.” You glance at her slyly. “Want to come get drunk with me and Finnick?”

It’s not much of a surprise when she says yes.

-

You and Katniss in a club for the third time this week. Across the room, a pair of purple eyes beneath orange hair watch the way Katniss’ fingers brush against the inside of your wrist.

“We’ve got to stop meeting like this,” Finnick says, sliding into the booth with you, a tall glass of something fruity-looking in his hand.

Katniss reaches out to steal it from his grip, drunk and giggling. When she takes a swig, she leans into your warmth, relaxed, almost happy. Finnick raises an eyebrow at you over her head and you shrug: you were both like this once upon a time.

“Looks like you guys are having fun,” he says, leaning back into the leather.

You pull a face at him: “So much,” you say, jerking your head at the room where the party continues to rage, people moving, lights flashing, room pulsating to the beat.

Finnick glances around at the club. It seems nonchalant but you know better: he feels the weight of their eyes just like you. “Glimmer’s having a party,” he says casually, “If you want to get out of here.”

There are a million other things you’d rather do, but Katniss turns to look at you, excited and hopeful, and you’re resolve crumbles.

Haymitch in your kitchen: _she’s the one_.

-

“Are you going to help?” Finnick asks under cover of darkness.

It’s late and you’re in his bed, wrapped up in sheets of silk. He rolls to look at you and the moonlight through the window reflects off his face: the sharp angles of his cheekbones, the deep pools of his eyes.

“It’s important,” he says. “Please, Jo.”

“I’m not going up against Snow,” you tell him. “I’ve seen how that ends.”

Fire and blood and ash in your mouth, the scent of smoke lingering for days, nothing left but twisted limbs in the burnt-up rubble of a house, hands reaching out for you desperately, but you weren’t there, you couldn’t help them, couldn’t save them –

“Jo,” Finnick murmurs, low and serious; he shuffles forward so your noses touch. “We need you to convince Katniss.”

He reaches out to tuck your hair behind your ear: a Capitol seduction, not one you’ve ever fallen for. You jerk away from his hand. “She won’t do it,” you tell him.

The muscle in his jaw twitches. “She _will_ if you ask her,” he says, and his voice is heavy with frustration. 

You bark out a laugh, short and harsh. “I think you’re overestimating our friendship, Finnick.”

He snorts: “Friendship? Is that what you’re calling it?”

“That’s what it is.” Even in the dark you can see the way he rolls his eyes. “Oh shut up. Look it’s not going to make a difference who asks her. She’s not going to do it.”

It makes him sigh, heavy and frustrated. “Please, Jo, just – just ask her.” He presses his mouth to yours: gentle, easy, all the things your life is not. “For me.”

There was a time when you couldn’t deny him anything, when you were drunk off the feel of his skin against yours, the taste of him on your tongue. But that was before you learnt how the Capitol works, before it tainted every part of your life.

“This is all going to end in tears,” you tell him.

Finnick blinks at you in the darkness; his face is unreadable. “I didn’t think you were scared of anything,” he says.

-

You come home to a letter on your table, a familiar white envelope, writing as black as night. The sight of it makes you sick to your stomach but it’s not like you can say no to President Snow and his perfectly neat handwriting.

You ride through the Capitol in the dark, beneath the twinkling lights of the city. The client is one of the Gamemakers; he lives in a gaudy apartment downtown, ostentatious to match his tastes. He’s on you the moment you step through the door, all sweaty palms and sharp teeth. This is nothing new: they’re all like this, so desperate, so greedy, but there’s something in the twist of his mouth, the tightness of his hands around your wrists.

“I was thinking,” he whispers against your ear as he presses you against the window that spans his entire apartment, “What it would be like to have two Victors at the same time.”

It’s not a strange request. You’ve done it before: you and Finnick putting on a show, you and Cashmere sharing glances across a bed. If they can afford it, they can make it happen.

“Wouldn’t that be fun?” he murmurs, biting down as he thrusts into you, sharp and jarring. “Have you ever done that, Johanna?”

The sound of your name in his mouth makes you want to vomit, but instead you keep your mouth shut and tilt your head back to give him better access to your throat.

“I know who I’d want,” he says, and his voice is breathy: it’ll be over soon, thankfully. “You and that new girl – the Girl on Fire. She’s a pretty little thing. I can just picture the two of you in my bed, you kissing her, you _fucking_ her. Would you like that, Johanna? Would you enjoy that?”

You stare out at the lights and try to think of anything else.

-

The season's changing and you’re at the train station. It’s crowded, people weaving around you like fish in a river, and the wind is making your hair dance about your face. Finnick is makeup free, eyes blue as the ocean, the muscles in his arm bunched as he hefts his bags.

“Tell Annie I say hello,” you tell him.

“I will.” His eyes are distant, mind already on his red-haired girl, on how he’s going to fix her this time. “I’ll call you later.”

You nod, but you know he won’t. You two may be thick as thieves, but Four is his home, his sanctuary, and he won’t ever risk tainting that with your voice, your stories: with the Capitol.

The train whistles and he presses a kiss to your forehead like your father used to. Then he’s gone, the train roaring past you as it carries him away. When it’s out of sight you reach for you phone, dial the number of the only person you want to see.

“Want to get a drink?” you ask.

“Always,” Katniss answers.

-

It’s late, so late that the sky is starting to lighten on the horizon, colours peeking above the ridges of the mountains in the distance. There’s a faint dusting of snow on them: winter in the Capitol, and you breathe in the cold air from your balcony.

The door slides open with a snick, the sound of feet padding across the floor as someone comes up behind you. A hand on your hip: Katniss pressing herself against your back.

“What’re you thinking about?” she asks, chin propped on your shoulder.

You turn into her, slip an arm around her waist. “I hate that there aren’t any stars here,” you tell her. “In Seven it’s so dark you can see the galaxies.”

When you look at her, Katniss is blinking at you, lashes a dark smudge against the pale skin of her cheeks, confusion in those dark depths like she doesn’t know what to do with you, and that’s when you lean in, press your mouth to hers.

She doesn’t move for a moment, but slowly relaxes into you, hands coming up to curve around your face. Her fingertips press into your skin; the shape of them is seared into your bones. Her lips are chapped and she’s nervous, tentative in the way she moves against you. When you pull back, her face is lit up, almost ecstatic.

“I’ve been thinking about this,” she says, whisper-soft against your lips, and she smiles, so tender your heart threatens to burst out of your chest.  

-

You’re drunk again, a recurring theme these days. It eases the sting of pulled muscles, the ache of dark bruises on your skin. Cinna’s in your living room, wearing all black like he’s heading to a funeral: whose you’re not sure.

“You know you’re just going to get yourselves killed,” you say into the silence.

Cinna frowns at you; you can’t tell if he’s surprised or disappointed. “You want a rebellion as much as the rest of us, Jo. Don’t pretend you don’t.”

You have to shake your head. “It’s too dangerous. If Snow finds out –”

Cinna sits up straight, hand darting out to wrap around your wrist. His grip is tight, sure. “This is our chance, Jo. We can stop them from killing anyone else.”

“At the risk of your _life_ ,” you hiss; “Of her life. Forgive me if I don’t want to see all my friends die.”

“It’s worth it,” he says, with such conviction that it makes your heart ache. “We might not get another shot, not for a long time. We have to act now.”

“And if it fails?” you ask him. “What happens then?”

“Does it matter?” He’s peering at you like he can see straight into your soul. “How much longer can you keep sacrificing those kids in the arena?”

That hurts, a sharp pain in your heart. You’ve had three years of tributes, their pale faces and desperate eyes, asking with shaking voices how you did it, how you won. Three years of training them, honing them, trying to make them into the weapons they’d never could be. Three years of seeing them die, blood splattering across the camera as you watched helplessly from your couch.

He’s right: you can’t go on like this much longer.

“Okay,” you say, “I’ll do it.”

Cinna smiles, finally satisfied, and you think of Katniss in your kitchen, backlit by the setting sun: a girl on fire.

-

Katniss’ apartment is a few blocks away from yours: ninth floor overlooking the bustle of the street below. It has a clinical feel, all white walls and floors, stark and cold. The only warm place is her bed, a mound of bright comforters piled up for her to snuggle under.

It’s where the afternoon finds the two of you. You’re curled together, tucked up against her back, your hand fitted around the curve of her ribs, face pressed into the crook of her neck. She’s breathing, alive and real, heart beating a slow and easy rhythm beneath your hands.

“I need you to do something,” you whisper into her skin.

Katniss rolls slowly to smile at you, small and sweet, face a beacon amidst the dark spread of her hair on the pillow. “Anything.”

“Be the Mockingjay,” you say; “Be their figurehead. Help them win.”

Tension springs to life in her muscles, her brow furrowing in confusion. “Why me? I didn’t do anything.”

“It doesn’t matter,” you tell her. “You stood up to the Capitol, to Snow. The districts will follow you.”

She squints at you in the darkness, nervousness in her eyes. “What if Snow finds out?”

You shrug. “They’re going to overthrow him.” You can see her wavering: this is the tipping point. “If the rebellion works, there’ll be no more Games, Katniss. No more death.”

“ _If_.” She blinks at you in the dark. “Do you think it’s going to work? Do you think we can do it?”

The answer is: no. What you say is: “Of course.”

-

A room full of Victors: dozens of them, all eyes on your girl as she stands before you. Her eyes are clear and her head is held high; she doesn’t look like she’s carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders.

“Are you sure?” Beetee is asking, leaning forward in his chair to get a better look at her. “This is not going to be easy.”

Katniss nods, determined. “I need to do this.” Her mouth turns down at the corners; it hurts to see the sorrow on her face. “For Peeta.”

Haymitch puts a hand on her shoulder, and you see the way he squeezes tight, the way Katniss leans into him a little. “Alright then,” he says, “Let’s get to work.”

Katniss’ eyes land on you across the room, so hopeful and eager, and you send up a prayer that this doesn’t blow up in your faces.

-

There’s a letter on your table: white envelope, writing as black as night. The scent of roses lingers in the air, cloying, and you choke on it.

Inside the cursive gives you the instructions, date, time, place. There’s an extra addendum of _partner_ , _female_ , and you already know who it is.

Who else would it be?

You reach for the phone to call – who? Finnick’s back in Four trying to coax crazy Annie Cresta out of her shell. Haymitch is in Twelve, probably drinking himself into oblivion with the ghosts of his long lost tributes. Katniss –

Katniss Everdeen is in the Capitol, staring at a matching envelope with matching writing: _partner_ , _female_ , the sweet-sour smell of roses suffocating her.

-

Another apartment, another Capitol fat cat with a penchant for Victors. Only this time it’s Katniss sitting opposite you in his living room, hands curled tightly in her lap. She doesn’t look at you: the walls, the ceiling, the floor, anywhere but you.

Your client comes in. Blue hair, orange skin, a tattoo snaking up his neck and along his face. Nothing you haven’t seen before; to her credit, Katniss barely blinks.

“This way,” he says, and you follow him down an endless corridor to a room decorated in shades of purple: a royal colour: Snow’s colour.

The lights are turned down low, and Katniss hesitates for a moment before you nudge her further into the room. Your client crosses the room, sinks down into the armchair in the corner. His eyes are ravenous.

“Undress her,” he directs.

It’s easy to turn to Katniss, to put your hand on her shoulder and slide the strap of her dress down. Your fingers brush creamy skin and Katniss’ breath hitches; in the corner your client’s hand slides towards his crotch.

“ _Jo_ ,” she whispers to you, but you step in, kiss her to keep her quiet.

She goes with it, hand on your neck, arm around your waist. It’s so familiar, like nights spent on your couch, in her bed, pressed together from head to toe. But her hands are shaking against your skin and your heart is pounding double-time, fear dancing under your skin.

Cautiously, you pull back and Katniss’ eyes meet yours, pools of grey almost black in the half-light. You can see everything: her fear, her hope, and under it all her love, like a fire dancing in the depths. And in that moment, you know it’s all going to come crashing down around your ears.

-

Finnick at your door: “You’re an idiot.”

You try to smile but it feels like glass in your mouth. “How bad?” you ask, letting him slip past you.

He says nothing, just goes straight for where the liquor is stashed: pretty bad then if he’s going for the booze at two in the afternoon. You trail after him, trying to stop yourself from shaking, but it’s no use: the fear is taking over.

Finnick drops into an armchair, scrubs a hand over his face. “Your girl didn’t do a good job of hiding how she feels about you.”

You flinch. The rules are simple in the Capitol: don't get attached, don't give them anything to hold against you. But you can't help it this time, the way you feel about her, how she feels about you. You've broken the rules and now you're sick to your stomach with worry.

You shake your head at him desperately. “She doesn’t – she doesn’t get how it works.”

Finnick just sighs. “But _you_ do, Jo. You can’t blame it on her.” When he looks at you there’s real fear in his eyes. “You know what happens next.”

Oh you do: punishment in some form: a cruel client, tributes with no sponsors, trains to Seven never reaching their destination. Every little thing you do affects everyone else.

“What do you think he’ll do?” you ask. If anyone knows how Snow thinks, it’s Finnick Odair.

“I don’t know.” The look on his face is mournful; he’s already grieving for you. “You better prepare yourself.”

In the hallway: a knock at your door.

-

Snow’s mansion is a monstrosity at the heart of the Capitol, a monument to the man himself. You’re shown down long corridors, white stone glistening beneath your feet, to an office with a dark panelled door. Behind it sits the man you’ve come to see: your President, your tyrant.

When you come in he’s at his desk, writing a letter in delicate cursive. He looks up at you and his eyes are cold, snakelike. He gestures to the chair, says, “Sit down, Miss Mason,” and you do carefully, cautiously. “I would like to talk to you about Katniss Everdeen.”

“Nothing happened,” you blurt out before he can accuse you of anything.

Snow laughs. “I think you may have misjudged why you are here, Miss Mason.” He splays out his fingers on the table, long and thin: a strangler’s hands. “I don’t care what you two have been getting up to behind closed doors.”

The tension tying your stomach in knots should be easing, but it just worsens. In your lap, your hands shake like leaves at the top of trees trembling in the wind. 

“Then why am I here?” you ask, trying to keep your voice as calm as possible.

Snow smiles, sharp at the edges. “I have run this country for many years now, Miss Mason. I have eyes and ears everywhere.” He leans forward to fix you with a hard stare. “It’s a foolish plan, what you and your fellow Victors have come up with.”

It feels like all the air has been sucked from the room. Your heart stutters in your chest and you can’t make your mouth move. Finnick’s voice in your head says: _deny deny deny_.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you croak out. Even to your own ears, it sounds insincere.

“Come now,” he says, “No need to lie. I don’t mind about these plots – they never come to fruition. But that does not mean that I want my newest Victor involved in it.”

You watch him watching you: a monster in the shape of a man. The room smells like roses and rot, and there’s a smear of red at the corner of his mouth, a shade of crimson you know all too well.

“You are here,” he says, “Because you have a relationship with Katniss. You have influence over her. Your friends are using her as the face of their rebellion, but you have the power to change her mind.”

He seems so calm, so collected; it makes a blinding fear lance through you. There are only so many ways this can end.

“And if I can’t?” you ask.

Snow leans back in his chair; the leather creaks ominously. “I don’t think you understand what is at stake here, Miss Mason. You will all toe the line or else.”

-

You find Katniss with Cinna. She’s wearing a dress of black silk, wrapped around her like a delicate cloak. She looks beautiful, regal, a queen in the making. You can hear Cinna murmuring to her: _you’re gorgeous_ , he says, _they’re not going to be able to look away_.

They both turn to you when the door slams shut. Katniss’ eyes are so bright, so hopeful, and you feel their weight on you like a knife through the heart.

“You need to stop,” you tell them, taking stumbling steps into the room. “She can’t be the Mockingjay.”

Cinna’s frowning at you, but Katniss is the one to step forward. “I have to do this,” she says. “You’re the one that convinced me, Jo.” She tilts her head, those dark eyes narrowing in suspicion. “What’s changed?”

You want to lie, to protect that last shard of innocence in her: she is only a child after all. But Katniss Everdeen is a Victor, she is a survivor; it’s time she learnt how the Capitol works.

“He knows,” you tell her. “Snow knows.”

The room goes dead: no one moves, no one breathes. Cinna’s mouth works but no sound comes out. You can hear the clock ticking from the other room; it’s deafening, echoing. Eventually Katniss shatters the silence.

“I can’t stop,” she says, and she takes a cautious step towards you, as if she’s approaching a wild animal. “It’s too important. You know I have to do it.”

You can feel your hands shaking at your sides: anger, fear, disbelief. “He’ll kill you. He’ll kill everyone.”

Cinna shakes his head. “He can’t,” he tells you softly, like he’s talking to a child. “The Capitol wouldn’t allow it. They’d have riots in the streets.”

You jerk away from his hold. “You don’t get it,” you yell: “If not you then someone else. That’s how it works – how _he_ works.”

Katniss puts gentle hands on your face, turns you to her so she can press her forehead to yours. Your noses touch, your lips: “I have to do this,” she says against your mouth. “There’s no one else. Please, trust me.”

God help you, you do.

-

You wait and wait and wait. The cold of winter slips away, flowers beginning to sprout from under the frozen ground. You wake every morning in a cold sweat, terrified of what’s to come, but Snow never calls for you again.

“So,” Finnick says awkwardly, standing in your doorway, “I guess I’ll see you soon.”

It’s Spring: the Games are around the corner and it’s time to head back to Seven, to prepare for whatever horrors the Gamemakers have for you this time.

“I’ll see you soon,” you echo, but it feels hollow, fake.

He reaches out to touch your arm; it’s meant to be comforting. Another time you might have reeled him in, put your mouth to his and let him chase the fears away, but now there’s nothing but a pit in your stomach, a sense of anticipation that fills you with dread.

“It’s going to be okay,” he says, like it’s that easy. “You just have to get through the Games.”

He steps off the curb and away. You lose him in the crowd.

-

You know what’s going to happen, can see it coming from a long way off: the Quarter Quell: Snow’s face on your TV screen.

“As a reminder,” Snow says, those dark eyes boring into you, “That war touches all of us, even those who are too weak to fight –” His mouth curves into a smile, something sharp and smug. “– the tributes are to be reaped from a pool of under fourteens.”

The world grinds to a halt around you. On screen Snow’s mouth keeps moving, keeps sounding out words, but you can’t hear him over the buzzing in your ears. Panic is rushing in and you feel like a live wire, shaking and twitching on your ratty couch.

Katniss’ in your bed, head in your lap as you twist your fingers through her hair: _my sister Primrose, she's thirteen, she’s the kindest person in the world_.

A sob catches in your throat and you choke on all your good intentions. 

**Author's Note:**

> There might be a part two of this somewhere.


End file.
